Sense
by proudgirl
Summary: Jim's internal monologue and beyond during Casino Night for now. Rating now 'M' but mostly for the last chapter. MAY possibly have six parts leave a commentreview if you WANT a sixth part!
1. Chapter 1: Sound

**_Sense _**

_**Chapter One: Sound**_

Disclaimer: Don't. Own. Nothin'

Author's Note: This is the first part of an internal monologue story I'm hoping to set up for Jim. As of right now, it only reflects what has happened up to the confession in "Casino Night," but (depending on the feedback I get), I may extend it to incorporate the kiss and some pure speculative events (on my part). So, again, FEEDBACK IS FOOD. Thanks, all.

"Well, you should."

The words didn't shock him. Didn't surprise him. They were so practical, so _natural _that he'd mulled the idea over in his mind long before Jan verbalized it. Why didn't he just tell Michael? Or Ryan? Or…well, someone? It made sense. He was transferring; he was moving on to a better place. A better life. It made sense to share the good news, even if he was leaving. Even if it meant giving Michael yet another reason to sic the party-planning committee on the office. Not that the thought of _Pam_ helping out with the would-be going-away party plans wasn't appealing – at this he smiled. He could just imagine Pam rolling her eyes at the camera, her lips pressed ever-so-slightly together, her deadpan Michael-mockery obvious to everyone but the man himself.

Except that she'd be planning _his_ going-away party. And he wasn't sure he could watch her do that. Watch her send him off, watch the corners of her mouth struggle to smile but wanly at him, hear her lackluster goodbyes as he tried to memorize her, to cram every ounce of that melancholic image in his mind simply because it'd be the last. It was almost better to just leave. To have her unaware of the finality of their last moment, just so his last memory of Pam would be of her smiling, happy and giddy. And none the wiser.

At this, he felt a sudden twinge of – guilt? He was supposed to be her friend. And he loved being her friend; he really did. It was the other things he wanted that made it impossible for him to stay. It was the moments when, instead of giving her a quick hug like a friend should, he'd linger for a while longer, soaking in her fresh smell of soap and shampoo (Herbal Essence? he feared for his manhood), basking in the warmth of her body, the perfect way she fit him – filled him out and filled him up. And then having to let go of that…perfection; well, there simply were no words for the excruciating ache he felt. For awhile, he'd stop touching her, stop looking at her, stop gravitating toward her – because he wanted to, and because, like gravity, once he let himself fall, there was nothing to stop it, nothing to keep him from lingering, from traveling just a bit further down the path of least resistance, from wanting just a little bit more. "A little bit"? He could almost laugh at himself. _Everything_, he let himself admit, _I want everything_.

So he was going to keep it to himself. Because it wasn't fair otherwise. It wasn't fair to tell her about the transfer and…what? Expect her to stop him? Because, he'd long since discovered, _that_ would never happen. The only world he'd be turning upside down is his own, and no one does that for nothing. No one does that when nothing could ever come of it. So what if he was protecting himself? It made sense.

It made sense.

He allowed the three words to repeat like a mantra as he walked determinedly past Roy's car. His big, ostentatious man-truck. It was ridiculous to find something as simple as that obnoxious, but he did. And the fact that Pam was standing out in the cold breeze without a jacket as Roy revved up his bulging vehicle was more than he could stand. But – it made sense. It was…typical. Right?

Right. So he pressed onward, his head down, his mind exploding with jealousy and annoyance and fear and three words that barely meant anything now that he was so close to Pam he could almost smell Roy's cologne. It. Made. Sense.

"Heyyy, Halpert!"

_Heyyy, Kumquat! The name's Jim. _Not that he'd ever want Roy to say it, because the only time he'd ever liked his own name was when, well, when Pam said it. Sang it, really. Her voice – so smooth, with perfect fluctuation and flawless intonation. Like a song. Like Pam was singing his name, and all he wanted was for her to keep singing that one note, over and over again: Jimjimjimjimjimjim…

"Keep an eye on her alright?"

Right. An eye on her. As opposed to both eyes soul-kissing her up and down and all over – all night long. He got the difference.

"Okay. Will do."

As if he'd say anything else. As if he'd rebuff an opportunity to keep his eyes – eye – on Pam. As if he could even tear his eyes away from her now that she was moving toward him, her hands swinging at her sides, her smile wide, her face luminous with – what? The thought of an impending wedding? The happiness of _having_ a future? He always had to remind himself that she did have one. Even if it wasn't exactly a future with him in it, it was still a future. So he said the first thing that made any sense to say:

"Hey, how's it going?"

Pathetic. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

"Good. Especially after I took all your money in poker."

Oh, like he _cared_. Like losing a pile of plastic chips could even put a damper on that beautiful moment, watching her move so smoothly in that sleek, blue dress, her long, delicate fingers stretching across the table to collect his chips. To collect him. And then that smile – he was sure he wanted to grab her right then and there, send Kevin and the chips flying from the table, and just _have his way_ with her. Respectfully, of course. Of course.

"Yea, um…"

He chuckled, ever-so-nervously. Just to let the moment pass. And, as for the dancing specter in front of him – why in hell was she so damn _giddy_? Her being gorgeous was not helping his resolve to keep his mouth shut. He almost wanted her to do something terribly ugly, like pick a wedgie. Although, knowing Pam, she'd probably find a way to make _that_ the ultimate turn-on.

So he had to tell her, right? She deserved to know about the transfer. He owed his friend (his friend, his friend, his friend) that much.

"Hey, uh, can I talk to you about something?"

"About…when you want to give me more of your money?"

_Or how about when you want to give me more of...you?_

"No, I…"

"Did you want to do that now? We could go inside. Feelin' kinda good tonight."

_Oh stop. Pick. Your. Wedgie. Please._

"I was just, um…"

He vaguely gestured toward something behind him. Something light years in the past, so far removed from this moment, from this feeling, from the light trickling on that piece of hair she didn't completely pin back, from this urge to just – tuck it back, or better yet – take it down, letting it flow endless as it sifted through his fingers. And those shoulders – hunched forward as she happily swayed to the sound of her own laughter – how he wanted to just wrap himself around those shoulders, just so he'd sway in unison with her. Like that night not so long ago when they swayed to Travis. Except her laughter was better than any music he'd ever heard. And, even though it didn't make any sense, he thought he heard enough encouragement in her laughter to make that long since forgotten hope surge up again, breaking the fortress of his despair and re-awakening that faint desperation of courage he felt so many nights ago on the boat. That night, he'd wanted to save the receptionist; since, he'd come to realize that he wanted the receptionist to save _him_. So, as he watched her smile wane, her face registering the change in his own, he said the only thing that made any sense to say, the only thing that made no sense to say:

"I'm in love with you."

Even as he watched her face crash into sudden revelation, he could only marvel at how _right_ the words sounded. How true. And he could not believe that it had taken this long – four years – to hear the indisputable fact echoed back to him through the candidness of a warm breeze and from her pale, ashen face.

"What?"

_Oh, you heard me._

"I'm really sorry if that's weird for you to hear, but I needed you to…hear it."

His head lowered, he could hear – breathe – the sound of her shock, of her silence. And somehow, that was okay. Because it wasn't rejection, and he half-expected the rejection to come as soon as his own confession. So to fill the space between them, to pad the blow of his honesty, he tried to be understanding:

"Probably not good timing. I know that, I just – "

"What are you doing?"

_I'm in love with you. I'm IN LOVE with YOU._ He was sure he wasn't the only one who heard it. And this was okay. Wasn't it? There wasn't a pact. He didn't break some honor code that would keep him forever silent.

"What do you expect me to say to that?"

Everything. Nothing. He expected nothing. But he wanted, he needed…

"I just needed you to know. Once."

And it was true. Just once. He hoped, he wanted, he craved for more. For more than once, for eternity. For a lifetime of opportunities to say those words, over and over and over again until she knew just how much, just how true, just how real they were. But he only needed once. And, judging by the anger in her voice, once was all he would get. And that was…okay. It made sense.

"Well I, um, I…"

He knew he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't. That he should just walk away from certain rejection. But just at that moment, her words caught in her throat, she stopped breathing, and he could see behind her eyes some definite shift – would this happen? Could she possibly –

"I can't?"

No. She couldn't possibly. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't.

"Yea."

He looked down. Because it made sense.

"You have no idea – "

Oh, no. Anything but the consolation prize. He just wanted the world around him to crash in silence.

"Don't do that."

" – what your friendship means to me."

He suddenly thought of the toilet paper he had gotten one Christmas when his parents couldn't afford coal. And, only because it was true and because he was no longer strong enough to lie, he responded:

"Come on. I don't want to do that. I want to be _more_ than that."

"I can't."

She couldn't. She couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't. And, though he didn't expect it, though he didn't want to, he could feel his eyes welling up with yearning. With loss. And even though his mind wasn't ready to accept the silent crash-and-burn of the moment, his heart already felt it. And he felt this discomfort – like hurt – rising from the pit of his abdomen, and when it finally came to the base of his throat, he forced it down with saliva. With common sense. With cynicism.

"And I'm really sorry…if you misinterpreted things. It's probably my fault."

Right. Misinterpreted. Like her actions, her smiles, her laughter, those brief moments when she'd touch him – all misinterpretation. As if they needed interpretation. Decoding. As if they were cryptic or hidden.

"Not your fault."

He felt the tear fall from his eye, rolling, sliding, creeping down his left cheek.

"I'm sorry I misinterpreted, uh…"

His hand instinctively wiped away the remains of his ridiculous embarrassment. Of the first and last time she'd ever see his passion, his lack of sense.

"…our friendship."

And as he walked away from her, as he played the conversation over in his head, he could only think of how much sense it all made. And of how little that mattered.

Only then did he start to hear her hesitation.


	2. Chapter 2: Taste

_**Sense**_

**_Chapter Two: Taste_**

Disclaimer: Again. Don't. Own. Nothin'.

Author's Note: Second part to _Sense_. Theoretically, this will be a five-part (five chapters) story, each bearing one of the five senses as its theme. Again – FEEDBACK IS FOOD. It will determine how quickly I put up the remaining chapters, if at all. Thanks, all.

He really wanted beer. Or some 150-proof. Hell, he wondered what it'd take to drag himself back in the warehouse just to order a Kelly Kapoor special. Or, and he couldn't help but smile at the memory, a few second drinks. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this nauseous, and it just seemed such a waste to have a hangover without the inebriation. Was it possible to feel nauseous without actually wanting to throw up? He felt like pushing the limits. Which was, incidentally, the theme of the night. Not that he'd take it back. Or do it again. It had to be said (right?), but it wasn't something that could bear repeating. Except in his mind. Even now, moments after, all he could hear was "I'm in love with you." And her rejection. Her rejection.

_I can't._

Can't. Like impossibility. Like never. Like that day so many years ago when, a month after his silk worm Steinbeck had passed away (withered, really), it finally hit him that he'd _never_ see him again. Never. And how he'd thrown out the dried mulberry leaves he'd been saving for – well, for when Steinbeck returned. It was so strange to still feel that sense of expectancy even after giving him a proper burial in the backyard. Like it was all just a formality, like _sense _had yet to exert its cynicism. And then, just because he saw the crisp, shriveled mulberry leaves tucked away in that old shoebox he'd been cleaning out, the reality of _never _finally hit home. But he didn't cry. He'd quietly and sensibly tossed the shoebox in the neighborhood dumpster.

Because his parents wouldn't let him bury it next to Steinbeck.

So was this the shoebox? Except that you can't exactly throw your heart in the dumpster, even if it's already there. As he climbed into the backseat of his Corolla, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd have to throw out and throw up hope right then and there. Except that he didn't really want to throw up.

_I can't._

_Fuck._ Maraschino cherries sounded damn good right now. As did a bucket. Except…and now that he had a moment to soak in his unwanted sobriety, he suddenly realized that she didn't say that. She had said…what had she said?

_I can't?_

So she hadn't _said_ anything. She'd asked. It was a question. A question. Then why did it feel like rejection.

_Because it wasn't "I love you too."_

Not that he had expected her to say it back. Hoped – yes. Dreamed. But – and he knew better than to fool himself – when it came down to it, people don't measure the outcome against what makes sense. No one waits for reality to affirm expectation, for expectation to come true. No, they wait to see if their dreams _had_ any truth. Because that's the only thing worth waiting for. So he was done waiting. He'd put himself on the waiting list for four years and now the wait was over. He'd finally done himself a favor. He could move on. Move on. But…

_I can't?_

He couldn't believe that he was even _thinking_ about how the question might make a difference. It was the same. It was him, Pam, and the once uncertain space between them replaced with the certainty (and proximity) of never. It made so much sense his head hurt from the logic.

He thought about writing his two weeks' notice. He didn't really want to write it, but he really wanted to write it. Just so it'd be over with and there'd be some finality to the situation. Because if he didn't, he'd probably never do anything about it. And he _had_ to get out of Scranton.

He heard himself open the back door, but not before he had leaned forward to grab the car keys off the dashboard and bumped his head in the process. He needed a new car. A bigger car – maybe a big, bulging man-truck like Roy's. Something that would announce his arrival miles ahead of time. Something that screamed "The New Jim Halpert" in bold letters, quite possibly indicated by a tacky bumper sticker with his face – happy and flashing pearly whites – on it stuck to the front. He couldn't imagine being able to afford a car like that, but hell, as long as he was going to be the "New and Improved" Jim Halpert, why not become the "New and Improved Yuppie" Jim Halpert? He quite liked the sound of that. He thought about reading _The Great Gatsby_ again as he made a mental note to skip the moral of the story this time.

But as soon as he stepped out into the warm breeze, his sobriety began to wear off. It was hard enough just putting one foot in front of the other as he headed up to the office. He thought it appropriate to write his letter there, in the very office he'd be leaving in only a few weeks time. It made complete sense, and he wished that his heart could catch up to his rationale by the time it came to say his goodbyes. Or not. Maybe he'd tell Michael to keep it a secret. He rolled his eyes. If ever there was a surefire way to make certain _everyone _knew by Monday, then telling Michael would do the trick. He could just hear Michael asking "Fat Halpert" if the "T-R-A-N-S" situation (codename Stamford) had anything to do with the "P" situation. With everyone in the conference room; Stanley "mmhmm"-ing his usual indifference and Creed asking if Stamford was in Hong Kong. And Pam staring blankly at him, her lips pressed together in unreadable silence; her eyes focused on the door, her arms crossed, her body rigid.

So by the time the elevators opened, he wasn't sure he wanted to write it. Maybe he could have Jan send in a memo that Michael would keep in a special filing cabinet. Except that Pam would still read it. And there it was – full circle. She'd have to know, one way or another; he just didn't want to be there when she found out. He didn't even know what he'd say should he see her again, which made him grateful (at least) for the fact that she'd probably hitched a ride home by now. He was safe for the night.

"Yeah, he's great."

He thought he heard a familiar voice – like a song – coming from inside the office as he quietly entered the room. And, though his mind stood frozen at the door, his feet kept moving, inching, sidling forward as he caught a glimpse of Pam illuminated by the light coming from his computer screen. She was sitting on his desk. His desk. It made no sense.

"Yeah, I think I _am_."

But it was perfect.

And because he'd never felt real perfection before this moment, never had fate line up all the cards for him, never embraced the split-second grace of life nonsensically handing him something he'd wanted all along, something that made so much sense logic no longer applied – he kept walking, one foot in front of the other. It was no longer hard to keep moving; it was impossible to stop. And when he'd gotten so close he could taste her breath, he let her sing his name just one time:

"Listen, Jim – "

Just one more time before it became unnecessary. Before the lyrical priming of the overture was replaced by the elegant entrance of the main theme, and he leaned forward, leaned in, leaned down to hold her – his hands on her back, his fingers touching fabric, his lips touching hers, his heart grasping infinity, his soul kissing eternity. And just when he thought he'd taken too much, held too much, kissed too much – her hands floated to the back of his head, and he felt her take him in as she kissed him back, the tip of her tongue meeting his (just barely), the warmth of her breath (so close, so sweet) signaling the start of a new day, a new life. He held her body holding his; he kissed her soul keeping his

And even as she pulled away, he could not stop. He could not part with her soul keeping his. So he kissed her, desperately, one last time. And she kissed back because they were the same body, moving forward to the rhythm of her soul keeping his, her body holding his, her heart needing his. And all he could remember of it was how right it was, how much sense it all made.

Even as he tasted her hesitation.


	3. Chapter 3: Scent

_**Sense**_

_**Chapter Three: Scent**_

Disclaimer: Again. Don't. Own. Nothin'.

Author's Note: Third part to _Sense_. Theoretically, this will be a five-part (five chapters) story, each bearing one of the five senses as its theme. Again – FEEDBACK IS FOOD. It will determine how quickly I put up the remaining chapters, if at all. Thanks, all.

"Jim! Jimmy. Jimmyeatwhirl."

"World."

"Yep. What?"

"Jimmy Eat World."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It's a band. Michael."

He really wanted to clean out his desk. And he would be. Except _someone_ had decided his last day would be best spent in the boss's office soaking in the sage advice of Agent Scarn. Which was…touching. But unnecessary. Really, truly, unnecessary.

"You were my best salesman, Jimbo."

Nostalgia. Great.

"I thought that was Dwa-ight."

He loved stretching out Dwight's name. _Dwa-igh-tuh. Kurrr-tuh. Schrooo-tuh._ Syllables be damned.

"Oh, yeh-lecchhh."

Oh, coffee breath. He saw Michael uncomfortably reach for the World's Best Boss mug. _Slurp._

"Or Stanley."

"Well, yer – no. Just – "

This was fun. He could work with this. But he'd still rather be cleaning out his desk. He just really wanted to get it done. So he could spend the rest of his last day in the men's bathroom and not sitting across from – well, he wasn't even sure if he _would_ be sitting across from her. She hadn't been in for the last two days. Sick. Or something. In any case, it made sense.

And the men's bathroom smelled like cookies n' Kevin (and well, recently, he thought he sniffed some alcohol coming from one of the stalls that was permanently shut), so he wasn't really looking forward to that either. But just in case.

"I should probably – "

He gestured toward the door.

"Right. Well, you know. I'm here to talk. Remember the good tahhms. Rememiss."

"Reminisce."

He looked at the camera. Long, pregnant pause.

"Mhm. Yep." _Slurp._

"Okay."

He went for the door, opening it just a crack so he'd get a peek at the receptionist's desk. Just Ryan. He quickly walked to his desk. Perfect timing. He could have his stuff boxed and ready to go within the hour. Which was actually rather sad. Four years, two months, nine days. One box, give or take a folder. And he was going to miss it. Everything. Even Kelly's mindless chatter and Dwight's…Dwight-isms. And Michael. Because, even if it was monotonous and soul-draining, it was his life for the last four years. But he had to leave. He had to. Because knowing that he was going to leave kept him from counting down the days to, well, it kept him from counting down. It kept him focused on the things that he could do for himself, the things he actually had any control over. And he needed this sense of control; because the biggest decision in his life was not his to make. So he had to make the little choices, just to remind himself that this was still _his_ life.

"What are you doing?"

And, only because it'd become instinct to respond, he answered:

"Michael's sending me on a secret mission."

"No, he's not. What mission."

"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

"I knew it. You're making it up."

He shrugs. This was too easy.

"Maybe I am."

He watched Dwight waver between belief and disbelief. And he could sense the scales tipping in his favor even before the Schrute opened his mouth to speak:

"Tell me."

"I can't. It's the rules."

Even if it was wrong to feel so damn satisfied at seeing Dwight's internal struggle with authority projected plainly from his beady eyes, it was still well worth the aftertaste of guilt. And he deserved it. Only Dwight could talk himself into believing that Michael might have some sort of secret errand for him on his last day. Only Dwight could believe that something as mundane as cleaning out a desk could bear the weight of a corporate-wide conspiracy theory. And, even though he shouldn't, he found himself wishing _she_ were here to make some deadpan remark about it. Or just snicker mischievously.

He missed her laugh. It wasn't the high-pitched shriek or empty giggle of a flirty girl. It was just…open. Layered. Free. And it freed him too. He thought he felt something good – something worthwhile – in himself when she laughed. When she laughed with him, because of him. And it wasn't that he didn't feel worthwhile or suffered from low self-esteem. But if he was making her laugh, then he must've done something right. Something perfect. And he loved that he could do something perfect – _have_ something perfect – without actually being perfect.

And he'd always have it too. Just like her scent, which, when he leaned close enough to his desk, he could still sense. Sometimes he'd subconsciously trace the part of his desk she'd leaned on, leaned into, and even though it made no sense, he knew he could keep it. That much was his to have. And the thought of it was so painfully wonderful he had to stop himself from thinking about it too much. It made it harder for him to leave the desk behind. To leave her behind.

But he wasn't. He wasn't leaving her behind. He was just making the one choice that made any sense to be making. He was just doing the follow-up work to a moment that he still sensed with every fiber of his soul, of his being. That night, she'd…

She'd kissed him. Back.

And he was so sure he'd never been kissed before that moment. That when she started to pull away, his instinct was to kiss her one more time. And again and again and again. Not just because it was new, but because it'd _always_ be new. It'd _always_ be the only. But then she had said – well.

_Jim, wait._

Wait. And it wasn't that he couldn't wait, because he could. He had. He would. It was suddenly hearing what he was asking of her, it was his own selfishness he'd heard. And her hesitance. And he couldn't stand there and ask her to re-evaluate her life for _him_. He couldn't ask for that. He shouldn't have to. And because she'd pulled away, pulled back, he knew she wasn't _there_, wasn't in that place that he wanted her to be in. So he'd looked at her, just because he wanted to, because he wanted to memorize the way the light played on her face, on her hair, on those shoulder blades (now pushed back, leaning away) because he'd never again stand so close to her, he'd never again be able to smell her shampoo, her body lotion. Her perfection.

And because, even as he shunned possibility, he could still feel his heart exploding from the moment. From this moment he'd been wanting for so long. From the fact – right? – that she'd wanted him too, just seconds ago. So it took him an eternity to find the right, measured words that were so untrue, that made so little sense he could feel logic taking over:

_I'm sorry._

Because he wasn't. He wasn't sorry. Not in the way he was supposed to be. But he was giving her a way out. And because she was scared, because she was _there_ anymore, she took it.

_I should – It's late._

_Yea._

Yea. He didn't let her go – he had let her _choose_. And she didn't choose him. And that was okay. It made sense. Yet, even though it made complete sense, it hurt so much he couldn't watch her leave. But he did anyway.

And that's when he'd written the two weeks notice. He hadn't even waited until she completely left the room before he started rummaging through his desk for a pen and some top-quality Dunder-Mifflin paper. And, with his fingers absentmindedly tracing that still-warm corner of his desk, he started to write.

Michael had wanted to throw him a party. But he'd talked him out of it. He managed to convince Michael that he'd feel more special if it was just a one-on-one, manager-à-employee (Michael's choice of words) lunch. It was a mistake to let Michael pick the place, but the reality of his mistake only sunk in after Michael ordered "fresh-squeezed" milk. That was when he'd asked for his ham and cheese to go.

They didn't talk about that night. She had wanted to, but for him, it was over. He couldn't keep putting himself out there, waiting for something that was never going to materialize. He couldn't ask her for something she wasn't ready to give. And he was afraid that he'd just…lose it again, the way he lost it that night. The way he'd lost control and just let things spill out, spill over. Even though, really, he had nothing to lose. Self-preservation was just a force of habit, he knew that. Yet, it still hurt so much to brush past her when she'd called out – sang, really – his name in the lunch room, when she tried to stop him in the hallway leading to the elevator, when she'd left that one message for him on his phone two days after – after:

_Listen, Jim, I'm really sorry that things got so…weird that night. I just – I think we should talk._

But when he didn't call back, when he stopped looking at her, when he started taking lunch breaks in his car – well, she didn't push it. She let him end it on his terms. His terms.

Even as he finished placing the last of his personal effects in the box, he couldn't decide whether such a thing truly existed. What were "his" terms? There were none. So, when he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out the Christmas card he had written for her, he didn't know what to do with it. And, though he hated himself for doing it, he pocketed it. For absolutely no reason. Nostalgia, perhaps. No, a deeper force.

She came in at eleven. He had gone to his car to stash the box in his trunk when Roy's titanic monster-truck had pulled into the parking lot. And he swallowed his hurt, forcing it down into his heart, making it burn as he watched them emerge, Roy's arm hooked around her shoulder, her eyes locked on her not-so-white Keds. _Time to take away that Dundee._ He smiled. It hurt, but it was as it should be. As sense would have it.

"I can't believe you're taking that job in Stamford, Jim. It's such a betrayal."

He spent the rest of the day listening to Kelly's ridiculous diatribe.

"I mean, I totally get it. But I just thought you were better than that. I mean, sure, it pays more, but what about your friends here? What about _our_ friendship, Jim?"

He choked on his soda.

"Like, Ryan and I are going through this rough patch, and you're the only one who _gets_ it, you know? You've been there since day one."

He sucked in his breath as he looked at her with eyes widened. But she went on anyway.

So, by the time it came to leave, he knew that nothing would really change for the employees at Dunder-Mifflin Scranton. Not even as they stood there saying their goodbyes, some tearfully, others mistakenly (Creed looked him in the eye and solemnly bid him farewell: "Good trip, Dwight"). And there was something comforting about it, even though the monotony was sad and unfulfilling. So when he passed by Pam's desk to say goodbye, he thought she might ignore him. But she looked up, and he saw that she had been crying. And he wanted to hold her so much that he had to remind himself she wasn't his to hold. But – and he couldn't stop himself – he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the one thing he had left unsaid between them. And as he placed it on her desk, he felt her hand on top of his, the scent of her shampoo so strong, so amazing it took all of his willpower, his sense, to pull away.

And as he turned to walk away with her scent stored away in his mind, in his heart, in his soul, he sensed the slightest scent of hesitation as she whispered:

"Don't give up on me."


	4. Chapter 4: Sight

_**Sense**_

**_Chapter Four: Sight_**

Disclaimer: Again. Don't. Own. Nothin'.

Author's Note: Fourth part to _Sense_. LOTS OF NEW DEVELOPMENTS, and plenty more on the horizon. Theoretically, this will be a five-part (five chapters) story, each bearing one of the five senses as its theme. So, theoretically, one more chapter left. Again – FEEDBACK IS FOOD. It will determine how quickly I put up the remaining chapters, if at all. Thanks, all.

He stood in the parking lot of Dunder-Mifflin Scranton. Baffled. Irritated. And completely, utterly, deliriously…happy. It was too early to make sense of the clashing emotions, so he let them slide. He knew he had neither the ego nor the spirit to make a grand, self-important entrance, but damn – it was so prosaic to walk in with a box and a spring in his step. Not that there was anything to be…springy about. He considered waiting it out – maybe sit in his car until the onslaught of employees shuffled their way through those dreaded doors, Stanley leading the pack of unwilling participants, generously grumbling his disapproval but just as quickly trudging to the office so he could get a head start on those sales calls. He smiled; he sometimes enjoyed these little contradictions that had less to do with hypocrisy than with the bottomless, unknowable nature of people.

So he thought it'd be best to wait. But he didn't.

As he walked through the once-familiar doors, he wondered how different things would be now. Probably not by much – at least that's what he hoped. Irony duly noted. Leaving hadn't been easy, but he'd certainly wanted a change of pace. Earlier he couldn't quite comprehend his vexation, but he realized now that it was the thought that these last three months had been a complete…waste. Not of time, because he wasn't foolish enough to believe that time itself held any more value than what he allowed it to have, but of _resolve_. A waste of resolve.

A wasted effort of trying to do the sensible thing. Which, inicidentally, meant leaving Scranton and leaving – well, leaving. That was enough.

And yet, apparently not. Because, as the elevator doors opened, he saw plainly and exasperatingly the futility of trying to take life into his own hands. Not that there's anything wrong with initiative. But life always had other plans, plans that, while not wholly unrelated to initiative, tended to be a bit coy. Not fickle, but tricky. He thought about natural disasters – typhoons, tsunamis, hurricanes. Storms. Those were supposed to be the unavoidable things in life. But then, so were the unnatural ones; hubris kept them from seeming like real threats, but – well. Only months after leaving for Stamford, he found himself in the middle of a moderate, unnatural panic: The branch was closed down and forced to consolidate. With Scranton. He heard Lady Fortune laughing her jolly ass off, her laughter ringing in his ears, making his head explode with contradiction. He didn't mind all that much, even though the joke was on him. It _was_ kind of funny. It was during moments like this that he thought of his mother and her charming speeches about the infallibility of ambition. Of boot-strapping grit. Of initiative. So, as he chuckled a bit at himself, he was chuckling at her too. And that felt _good_.

People who didn't know him assumed he was a momma's boy. He didn't always contradict, but he knew what he knew. He wasn't much like his brothers, who rarely failed to meet her expectations. And it wasn't that her expectations were complicated – expectations never really are. But the fulfillment of them? Well, he'd never been an ambitious child. Or adult, if he could indeed consider himself one. Idealistic, yes. Passionate. Like his father. Besides, ambition was for people with goals, not dreams. Passion – that was for the dreamers. And his ideals didn't involve lots of money. He suddenly felt a little rush of sympathy for his third-grade teacher, who had the unfortunate task of reacting to his particular brand of aspiration: To become a clown. That was before he came upon Stephen King's rendition of bozo-hood. The lights in his room didn't go off for years to come. Hell, he'd just wanted to make people laugh.

Until he met her. Then he stopped trying to make _people _laugh. Not that they didn't, but their laughter wasn't so important anymore. Only hers. Hers was the sound he listened for, the smile he looked for. And when he sometimes caught her giggling, those tiny shoulders shaking – swaying – ever-so-slightly to the sound of her own laughter…well, he couldn't even describe it. Couldn't make sense of it. And since when did perfection need translation.

When he pulled open the door to his old office, he knew she wasn't going to be at the receptionist's desk. But he looked anyway.

He suspected that Ryan was probably used to his forlorn gaze by now. As were the cameras. He wondered, for a moment, if Ryan still called himself the "Temp."

"Hey."

"Hey, welcome back."

"'Chappelle's Show'?"

"Nah."

He thought he sensed…embarrassment?

"Oh. Is it – "

"Season 1 'Newlyweds.'"

Oh.

"So that's still – "

Awkward pause.

"Yea."

He glanced quickly at the camera situated at the watercooler. _Heh._

That's when he noticed the seating arrangements had changed. To account for the new employees. He didn't mind, except that his desk was still next to Dwight's. With a less than optimal view of the front desk. Of course.

But the thought of her in NYC, doing what she loved best – that made him happy. Though he knew it was just a workshop, he couldn't help but imagine her in paint-stained jeans and an old T-shirt, free-flying across a blank canvas with paints and pastels, with colors in her hair, on her hands, between her toes, in her smile. It was a pretty generic image, he knew that, but then again, his only real understanding of graphic design was that it made her laugh more than usual. And he couldn't complain about _that_. He smiled. As he looked over to the receptionist's desk, he realized it was well worth the persistent presence of a sullen Ryan mulling over Nick and Jessica's scintillating escapades on the home-front.

All in all, he'd liked his co-workers at Stamford, some of whom were quietly adjusting to their new surroundings as he looked around. Three months was long enough to form lasting friendships, but he had been too focused on moving on to actually _move_ on. Not that Stamford had been a haze. A drone, yes – much like Scranton, sans Michael's occasional interruptions and Dwight's persistent…Dwight-isms. It was the way he'd thought Scranton would be when he first came. Quiet. Subdued. Predictably boring. And without complication.

But he wasn't sorry to leave. Irritated, yes. But not sorry.

"Whathuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!"

He looked at the camera. Maybe a little bit sorry.

"Whathuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!"

So, so sorry.

"Not the way I taught you."

"Sorry, Michael. Whathuuuu – "

"Stop. Just – Welcome back, Jaaames."

"Mikey."

He watched Michael's face register the name.

"Oh ho…Jim with a zinger!"

The rest he managed to block out. He looked over at the front desk again; damned reflex. That desk held a lot of memories for him. Memories that were somewhat tainted by Ryan and his "Newlyweds" splurge, but as he looked at it – and he couldn't help himself – he replayed the last thing she'd said, _whispered_ to him on the day he left.

_Don't give up on me_.

He hadn't turned around, turned back. He'd just kept walking like he hadn't heard her. And it had nothing to do with sense; he wasn't even thinking about that. He wasn't even thinking. He was just – what?

Fucking pissed.

He couldn't help it. She was fucking with his mind. His heart. As if he was the one giving up. He was surprised, genuinely surprised at her audacity. For putting the ball back in his court. Because it wasn't, not really. So he kept walking – his head down, his hands in his pockets, his sense on autopilot, his heart on save. And he thought he should feel proud of himself. For his resolve. He was pretty sure his mom would've approved, would've been proud.

But he wasn't.

He couldn't really remember the next few days – boxing things for the big move, getting flak from Mark for standing up a "bro." He was pretty sure it involved some alcohol and false fortitude, but other than that, it was a blank canvas. And, even though she wasn't there to paint it with color, she was still there. He slept through his last days in his apartment, getting up only to piss and pack. For Australia. And it was strange, because he'd really looked forward to the trip, especially in his last weeks at Dunder-Mifflin Scranton. But something had knocked the fun out of it. Something. And suddenly, he saw it for what it was: An escape. And he knew all about escaping, about running away – he'd done it often enough to recognize the gesture. Except that he wasn't thirteen, Australia wasn't his friend's house, and _she_ wasn't eighth-grade Algebra. As he stuffed his duffel bag with swim trunks and sunscreen, he wondered if, like Algebra, this _situation_ might seem, might feel, less severe with time. He wondered if he'd be able to look back on it and laugh a little. Probably not. The Algebra fiasco still wasn't very funny.

And then, the night before his flight, she called.

He didn't pick up, but he listened to her message. Over and over and over again. She sounded like she'd had too many second drinks.

_Hey Jim, it's Pam. Um…I'm sorry if what I said was weird. Have a good trip. And a good life. I mean – that sounds bad, doesn't it? I just really, really needed to…say goodbye. For me. So you don't have to call me back. Don't call me back._

So he didn't. He just sat in his room all night, his fingers tracing that part of his bed she'd sunk into so many nights ago, her legs crossed as she cradled his yearbook in her lap, giggling at a picture he'd since cut out. And as he replayed the message, all he saw was Pam in her wedding gown, walking down the aisle as his world crumbled at the altar. And he thought about how he wanted to see what she'd look like. He thought he'd go to the wedding just to see her glowing in her anticipation of a new life to come. But didn't think his heart could handle the price to pay for few seconds of shaky perfection.

When morning came, he brewed some coffee, burned the toast, and threw out his plane ticket.

And dialed her number. And when she picked, up, the familiar voice sent him into such an emotional frenzy that he said the first and only thing that made any sense to say:

_I'm not leaving._

There was silence on the other end. But only for a moment. Then:

_Don't do that. You can't save me._

Well, he couldn't argue with that. Except –

_I don't want that. That's not – I know you can save yourself._

And that was when she told him about postponing the wedding. And as she spoke, he felt his heart sinking further, his mouth so dry he reached for the now-lukewarm coffee. Because it meant absolutely nothing except that it bought them more time. Time that was going to be wasted anyway. Time that was of no value to him.

But, because life had a way of being coy, she ended up surprising him anyway.

His first week at Stamford, she'd emailed (his new account) to say that she was taking the internship in New York. Roy – and he winced a bit at reading the name – had finally wrapped his thick head (okay, so he was ad-libbing a little) around the idea, and with Jan's help, she'd managed to set up an arrangement that worked for both her and Michael – for the weekday mornings she'd spend in the Big Apple.

Sometime in July, they'd started calling each other again. She always had so much to say about the internship and so little to say about Roy. And that made him happy. And he started hearing her laughter again, ripples of happiness that quickened his own spirits too. But – and he couldn't help it – he started getting worried. Because it felt suspiciously like friendship. And there wasn't anything wrong with that, but he still wanted so much more. It scared him a little too, the familiarity of their conversation. So when there were moments of awkwardness, little reminders that their camaraderie hadn't completely recovered – he was, ironically enough, relieved. Because maybe discomfort felt like progress too. He needed to believe that, so he did.

In August, when he emailed her about the move back to Scranton, she'd seemed…vexed. Distracted. And it wasn't that he expected it to rock her world – although that certainly would've been nice – but he'd braced himself in case she had some smart-ass, sarcastic thing to say about it. She didn't. And, only days later, he discovered (in reading one of Kelly's long-winded, weekly emails – she would've called him, but he managed to convince her that his cell phone had perpetually bad reception: "And you deserve to be heard, loud and clear," he'd added) that Pam was "taking a break" with Roy. And, even as he smiled a bit to himself, he could see how that might make things…awkward.

Even now, as he swiveled around in his chair to glance past the receptionist's desk, he half-expected Roy to walk in. And he wasn't sure how he'd handle that, because he did feel terrible. In a way. Mainly because he didn't know how much she had told him. And – well, it couldn't feel good to lose her. Especially her.

So, when she walked in, her tiny frame entering the room and lighting it up, he thought he'd show some restraint. And really, she looked the same, aside from her hair (more wavy than curly), which now fell freely across her shoulders, sweeping the pink of her blouse and falling – she now had shorter bangs – across her eyes. Her eyes. And when she winked at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief, it took him a moment to gather himself and notice that, instead of the usual pencil skirt, she was wearing jeans. Not paint-stained, but still. He didn't think he would be, but he was now a firm-believer in casual Mondays.

And, just as he was crossing the invisible threshold to give her a proper greeting – a sensual hug and hot makeout session _was_ proper, right? – he sensed her sudden shift into momentary hesistation.

That's when he saw Roy.


	5. Chapter 5: Feel

_**Sense**_

**_Chapter Five: Feel_**

Disclaimer: Again. Don't. Own. Nothin'.

Author's Note: Fifth part to _Sense_. Is this the end? Theoretically. HOWEVER, recently I've toyed with the idea of writing a sixth part – Intuition. But that depends HEAVILY on the feedback I get. Do you guys WANT a sixth part? Because everything wraps up very neatly by the end of this chapter – the sixth would be more of an epilogue. Get back to me! FEEDBACK IS FOOD. Thanks, all.

"That is sooo hawwwt."

"Thanks, Kev."

He looked around for the cameras and spotted four. _Bingo_. Damned predators. It was strange to still feel this self-conscious, but he was. And the fact that Kevin was smirking something awful while giving him the thumbs up sign from ten feet away (and counting) made him feel a bit nauseous. He wasn't nervous, not really. It was just impossibly, improbably surreal and part of him – or all of him, whatever – wanted to indulge in the abstractness alone. Privately. Not so he could make sense of it, but so he could revel in its nonsensical perfection. He felt robbed of that. He felt robbed.

But when Toby walked in and gave him the faintest of smiles, his eyes droopy not from – as he later learned – perpetual lethargy but from informed disappointment with life, he found himself smiling back, waving back. And it wasn't perfunctory either. His irritation, he realized, had absolutely nothing to do with the situation. Or the people involved, though he still sensed Kevin's smirk; he'd long since discovered his built-in radar for perversion. Riveting. So what was it, this feeling? And, because he was no good at lying, not even to himself, he allowed his mind to form the word, the thought, the notion:

Fear.

And it made sense too. Considering all the times life – coy as it was – had convinced him that happiness wasn't a real option. Or that – and he shuddered internally at the thought – happiness wasn't what you wanted, but what you made it. That when life handed you lemons…well, he was glad he made more than an overrated beverage. He was glad Lady Fortune finally caved and gave him some fine alcohol to go with the souring fruit. Cheers, mate. But he couldn't take credit for _that_. He could, however, take credit for asking. Asking for more.

Seeing Phyllis – Vance, now – he felt himself relax a little. Because, as he watched Bob lean over and whisper, intimately, in her ear as her happy laughter trampoline-d off the walls, he knew he could have that too – of this he was convinced. He could. But it still felt completely natural to second-guess himself. Which is why – and he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop his mind from forming the image – he half-expected Roy to show up. Even though he knew that was over; that ship had sailed long ago. Hell, it'd been, what, three years? Three years since his last real confrontation with him. And even then it hadn't felt like much of a confrontation. Roy had just shown up, right there in the office, pushed past him and made a beeline for her. For her.

And he wasn't threatening or angry or even irritated. And, for all his usual guff about Roy's perpetual unsuitability for her, he saw – not entirely for the first time – that he did love her. And _that_, much more than the thought of getting beat up (which, he couldn't deny, _was_ on his mind), shook him up. Scared him. Because he could see how she might still love him back. Want him back. So he'd gone back to his desk, trying desperately to block out a conversation he did not want to hear, did not want to be a part of. And yet, by some capricious force of irony, wanted complete control over.

_Pam._

He'd hated hearing the intimacy. Hated seeing his hands move upwards, lightly touching her petite shoulders, grasping them in – why? – desperation. But what he'd hated most was knowing that every touch, every glance, every word contained a history that he will never be a part of. Never _know._

_Don't. Roy, not here._

_Well, I would call but you're not answering._

Well, there's always email. And AIM. And just…fucking off.

_I need space. I need you to give me space._

_Well, I need to know that it's not over. I need to hear you say it._

Don't. Say. It.

_Let's…I don't want to do this here._

All he remembered afterwards was that she'd followed Roy outside, and the only thing he heard, the only thing he allowed himself to hear, was the sound of her strained voice uttering the words:

_Maybe I need him. And I deserve to know why._

He would never know who she was referring to that day. But he knew who he wanted it to be, so he believed it. And that made him happy.

But he felt terrible too, because he really thought he could understand Roy's…dilemma, or maybe because – and he didn't lie to himself about this – he wanted to know that she had gotten the closure she needed. He needed. To move on, together. Sometime later that day, he'd gone down to the warehouse. But Roy didn't look at him, just brushed off his attempts at making "small" talk:

_I've got nothing to say to you, Halpert._

And he couldn't believe that he wanted to apologize, because really, he was apologizing for something that might never happen. Could never happen.

_I'm really sor – _

_Just walk away. Walk away, Halpert._

So he did. And maybe that was the cowardly thing to do, maybe another man would've stood his ground and declared, cheese-in-hand, hand-on-heart, his undying love for her, would've justified himself. But he didn't. Because he didn't need to explain to Roy what it meant to love her. And because he understood that – finally – he could forgive himself. Because that was life – wasn't it? – dealing him the most magnificent, most magnanimous hand that someone else had mistakenly thrown away. And he couldn't blame himself for seizing perfection, just as he'd long since stopped judging Roy for not. Because, as he recalled, he almost didn't either.

When her internship ended in the spring, he spent days poring over craigslist (amongst other convenient sites) with her, looking for something she might consider doing, something that felt closer to her dreams. She'd thrown a pillow (old and craggy) at him when he highlighted an ad for someone to play "Secretary" in a (clearly illegitimate) adult video. So he'd mock-tackled her, wrapping his arms around her waist – not unlike that time, too long ago, at the dojo – and this time she let him pick her up, hold her, feel her, as they fell, laughing, onto her couch. It was a beat-up old sofa they'd found at a Discovery Shop, and because her new surroundings desperately needed furnishings (and she desperately needed to be frugal), she'd taken it. And as he lay there with her, feeling her fingers splayed across his chest, her face so close that the tip of his bulbous nose grazed her perfect one – can noses kiss? – he thought about kissing her. But he didn't let himself think too long about it, he'd just let his lips touch hers, rest on hers, and she'd responded – both tentatively and eagerly, if that was possible – her mouth opening to breathe him, her arms opening to embrace him, her life opening to include him. And the touch, the feel of her was so beautiful he started to convince himself it was okay to be hers. It was such a cliché to not remember how long they stayed like that, but he really didn't. All he remembered was her saying, whispering something about dinner:

_We should get something to eat._

_Ooh, like a date?_

_No, like dinner._

And he had laughed so hard at the way she said that; his eyes started to well up with emotion, with something so deep, so beyond the feel of her hands on his face, the grace of her lips on his cheeks, kissing – were those tears? Damn it – that he was sure maybe she loved him a little too. And that thought lulled him to sleep, right there, he in her arms and she in his, such that he didn't know, didn't remember, where he ended and she began. Such that he decided maybe the magic of being connected with someone was that no one ended – there were only beginnings.

But, sometimes, starting – beginning – something also meant moving on. And he was so proud of her for having the courage to find something else, something better, something right. So, in the fall, when she decided to leave Dunder-Mifflin Scranton to collaborate with an upstart children's book author, he'd been scared for her and a little for himself, but he'd also been glad. Mostly because she was taking a chance, but also because, and at this he smiled, the world would finally get a chance to see her work. Her genius. Over the next few months, he'd often find her standing barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, her jeans rolled up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her bare calves (what a tease), herself knee-deep in drawings – some watercolor, some pencil sketches, and some marker doodles – looking distraught and incriminatingly cute with her nose scrunched up in distressed bliss. Sometimes she'd ask for an opinion, and he'd always find some perverse angle on her drawings, telling her:

_You have an erotic sense of humor, Beesly._

But just as quickly, he'd collect the ones she'd discarded, framing some of them for his apartment and taking the rest to work, where he proudly displayed them on his desk. Dwight always had something to say about it when they spilled over onto his desk, something about them being a safety hazard, but he'd long since stopped caring. And plus, with the juicy details Pam had dished about Angela, he figured he had great leverage should he ever care to use it. But he didn't.

It was summer before they went on their first date. He didn't want to push it, even though she hadn't exactly asked him to wait. He sensed that, even though they saw each other regularly and kissed on more than one occasion (mmm…), she wasn't yet ready to enter into a new relationship. He sometimes still felt her insecurity, even when she said nothing, perhaps _because_ she said nothing. So when she finally broached the subject (over sandwiches and tea, no less), he was surprised.

_You know, we've never been on a date._

_Hm. Are you asking?_

_Maybe._

_Because I need time to powder my nose and find something nice to wear, so…_

_Ooh, sexy._

That was the first night he held her. He hadn't planned on it, he really hadn't. But, all the same, when they'd gotten back to his place, he asked her to come in. Because – and he didn't lie to himself – he couldn't censor his thoughts much longer, not after she decided to wear that blue dress again, the one he'd grasped, glided, _moved_ his hands over that night in the office. And when they came to his room, she'd plopped herself on his bed with such familiarity that it felt completely right to him. It made complete sense. He thought he literally heard the loud click of life putting things in place for him, and when he leaned in to – what? – kiss her, he felt a sense of urgency in her body, the way she responded to his hands on her back, in her hair (which he let down as he felt it sift endless, like silky waves, through his fingers), sliding down – through – her body, wanting to know, to learn, to memorize every part of her so he'd remember, always, what it was like to make her happy, to make himself full, complete. And when they both reached the summit of everything, of perfection, of _love_, it still felt as though it were infinity, some forever unknown, vague, limitless, and vast continent of emotion and pleasure and beauty that would still be there, always be there, for them to come back another day, another time. That, for the first time, he believed that something could be perfect and yet still stand to be more perfect. That perfection, like all beautiful things in life, was impossible to replicate but necessary to explore. Like knowing there was something ahead, not better, but just as good, just as vague, just as limitless. Endless.

He'd teased her about being so "prepared" for their private excursion. And she'd blushed, covering herself with his sheets.

_Well, I'm very organized. Always plan ahead._

He laughed, his finger tracing down her left cheek, then her left shoulder, then…

_I lo – _

_Don't. Wait. I don't want you to say it first, because you always say it first. And I've never said it. And I don't want the first time I say it to be…in response to what you say. That cheapens it._

_Okay._

_Okay. I love Smurfs._

He gave her a schoolmarm-ish look, tickling her sides until she gave up, gave in:

_I love you. I'm in love with you. _

_Hm. Thanks. I love…spending time with you too. Hey, ow._

He hated that the first argument they had was about Roy. He'd called her, sometime in January, to ask how she was. To make small talk. And he couldn't help it, but he'd been…

Jealous.

And he hated that he was, hated that this should even matter anymore now that they were together, really together. Now that she was moving in with him. But, damn it, it still hurt, and some irrational, nonsensical part of him snapped when she mentioned, after the fact, that they'd had lunch together.

_Oh._

_What, you have something you want to say?_

_I don't know. Should I?_

_We had lunch, Jim._

_Yea, I heard you the first time._

And he knew it had something to do with the fact that she'd told him about it so many weeks after it happened, and not before. Not that she needed to clear things with him or anything, but that she _knew_ it wasn't just lunch, that he would've wanted to know. And if she couldn't admit that she felt some inexplicable guilt about it, then maybe she hadn't really moved on.

But she surprised him when she explained, hours after their argument, after she'd curtly left his apartment, that Roy had moved on. That he was with someone else now, that (apparently) he was leaving Scranton with her. And she confessed that it hurt a little, maybe even a lot, but not because she was still in love with him. It was thinking of those ten years of her life she'd thrown away on something that was completely wrong for her, something that ended abruptly and obviously didn't mean enough for either of them to hold onto – it was irrational, she knew, because she knew what she wanted now. But he understood; he did. Ten years was a long time to want something that she didn't really want. So, if for nothing else, he knew she needed to mourn for the loss of those feelings; that she didn't still love Roy, but maybe some deeper part of her missed loving him. It scared him a little, but he understood.

Sometime in February, he mentioned being interested in a teaching position, maybe at an elementary school. It was something he'd been thinking about for a long time, and seeing her work late, poring over sheets and sheets of paper filled with drawings of things that reminded him of childhood – castles, ferris wheels, clouds, and farm animals – her eyes tired but just as bright with excitement; well, _that_ certainly encouraged him. She stayed up with him into the wee hours (heh) of the night looking over different masters programs for education as they shared leftover pie, helping him with applications when he called for backup ("Backup, backup!"). They eventually settled on University of Scranton, where he could take night classes while clocking in regular hours at the ol' orifice. And he couldn't help it, but the simplicity, the _rightness_, of their domestic life got him thinking.

He thought about proposing all summer. And it wasn't that he didn't have the guts to do it, because he felt ready. But he wasn't sure she was. And then when he settled on the fact that he _would_, he couldn't decide _how_. He wanted to do something incredibly slick, something that would surprise her. But he wasn't much for the ring-in-the-cake method – what if she choked on it? – and he didn't want to embarrass her in front of strangers by popping the question on bended knee at some public place. He didn't want to rob her – them – of that moment. So in November, he thought he'd propose when they went to her parents for Thanksgiving. Except she'd come down with some variation of the bird flu (he jested until he caught it himself), so _that_ plan didn't quite fly.

On Christmas morning, he woke up blindfolded. And all he could hear was Pam's voice:

_Merry Jesus Day. Don't take that off._

_Mm…music to my ears. Is my present kinky?_

He could sense her rolling her eyes.

_Sure. Take something from the box._

He wanted to peek, but he didn't. All he could do was put his hand inside what felt like a shoebox, and it was strange doing this by feel. He thought his fingers grazed over a small, stubby pencil and maybe a cassette tape? But he wasn't sure.

_Just one?_

_Mhm._

There was some…excitement in her voice that he couldn't quite comprehend. He settled on a large, paper (courtesy of his years at Dunder-Mifflin) object – a card, maybe.

_Okay. You can take that off now._

_Ooh._

_The blindfold, Halpert._

As he did, he saw what was in his hand, and he was surprised he hadn't recognized it by touch – he'd held it often enough he should've known. And as she took it from him and started reading, he thought he had an inkling of what was to come.

"_Merry Christmas, Beesly! I was going to write something incredibly witty and funny, but I figured I'd settle on writing something honest. I'm a better Sudoku player than you are. Suck on that. The truth hurts, Beesly, the truth hurts. But if I can be serious for a second, then I'd have to tell you: I think you're perfect. And I don't want to say I wouldn't change anything about you, because I'm sure if you were to change, it'd still be perfect. I know it. I thought a long time about how I should end this card – with BEST WISHES? SINCERELY? REGARDS? But I decided that the only way this card would mean anything would be if I wrote the first thing that came to mind. Love, Jim."_

It was so strange, hearing her read it back to him, read aloud something he'd written three years ago in a moment of complete, senseless…passion.

_Pam – _

_Shut up. _

_What?_

_No, really. That…card changed my life. I want to say it was the kiss we shared at the office that changed my mind, and maybe it did, but this card changed everything else. Okay? And I want to be with someone who has made me change my life. Made me want the things I want now. Made me like myself. So, I think we should get married. Because I think we'd be happy._

He felt his mind blanking. And he said the only thing that came to him, something that made no sense to say given what _she_ had just told him:

_You did not just steal my thunder._

_What?_

_I was going to ask._

_Well, suck it. Okay?_

He'd smiled. As if he'd say anything else but

_Yes. Okay. Yes._

And, as they held each other for what felt like eternity, like _infinity_, he suddenly remembered to ask:

_What if I'd picked the pencil?_

_Jim, that pencil changed my life. I want to say it was the kiss we shared…_

She absolutely, positively deserved the massive tickling she got after pulling _that_ little stunt.

Even now, ask he stood waiting for her to come, he couldn't really believe that this was happening. And how, most days, he didn't try too hard to ponder whether he deserved this happiness, because he'd long since discovered that _no one_ deserved to be this happy, that it had nothing to do with getting his due. And he understood that life wasn't always this generous, wasn't always this eager to please; and because he could see that, he knew not to expect it, but to cherish it. Always. And maybe that made him a little worried too, because – as it had become a metaphor for all things that could possibly go wrong – life could just as easily pull a Roy and throw a wrench into this perfection. But, then again, he'd learned enough about himself, about her, about _Roy_ even, to know that perfection had to be protected. Sustained. That it would take work, but, fuck it all, it wasn't going to be perfunctory.

He looked around to find Phyllis again, to see her happiness as affirmation of his own. Not that he needed it. But it felt good to see it. And – he was surprised too – as he saw Oscar with his arm hooked around a man whom he'd never met before, he thought of that as a blessing too. That happiness wasn't unlikely; it was just a challenge. He felt sure he had risen to the occasion.

When the documentary crew asked to film the wedding, he'd been hesitant, but Pam was insistent. Ever since the documentary started airing in the fall, they'd both sort of realized how self-conscious it made them (and how self-conscious they looked onscreen) but also how cool it would be to have something to show their kids. When they had kids. When. It didn't feel strange at all discussing that life which now, as the church doors swung open, was inching toward them with every bit the grace and perfection he'd always imagined, always dreamed of. And that they could touch this point of exhilaration, of beauty, without hesitation – well. There were no words. Except maybe, as she entered, her presence – her existence – affirming every one of his senses, convincing him that this was the thing that made most sense, even though it made no sense for him to be this lucky. This blessed. He looked at her, grinning, and mouthed:

_Ready?_

And he was sure he saw her eyes twinkle as she mouthed, almost-imperceptibly:

_Ready._


End file.
